There are so many wonderful things to tell you.
But, you see, as I type this there is a heaviness in my heart. My Gram is dying. She is in her room at a nursing home on medicines that are keeping her pain-free, but her kidneys are failing and every time my phone rings I get a lump in my throat thinking it’ll be that call from my mother, telling me she’s finally at rest.
These are hard sentences to type. “Dying.” I keep looking at that word, the shape of the letters on this screen. That dying this time means a slow and constant state of being rather than a thing one quickly does and has finished. I know the last time I saw her was the last time I’ll see her. I think about the way it parallels someone scheduling a c-section, in a way. This is when a life will come into the world. This is when a life will leave. These great unknowns become known and we sit. And we wait.
I miss her already. All I can do is love her and love her.